


You or You?  Which You?

by GrumpiestCat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cybersex, Dear john, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 22:32:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3305765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrumpiestCat/pseuds/GrumpiestCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was happening in Sherlock's room during Chapter 25 of wendymarlowe's Dear John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You or You?  Which You?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wendymarlowe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Dear John](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2647979) by [wendymarlowe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe). 



> This is only the second fanfic I've written since 2009 and the first thing I've ever posted here. Unbeta-ed, so if you find errors and such, please point them out to me!

He won't be able to come.

He knows this, but says nothing to John. It's the internet. John's (too many) miles away and will never know if he doesn't finish. But he rarely did, before, with actual physical contact – a few memorable times not withstanding – and he doubts John will be able to accomplish anything with only words on a screen.

(He's induced other emotions in you, with just words. Typed characters on a screen. Made you hurt. Ache.)

He attempts to ignore his traitorous heart ( _brain_ , hearts do nothing but pump blood and eventually break and fail) and resigns himself to disappointment.

He could (should) lie.

It would be easy. John would not demand evidence, pictures. He could probably do a quick internet search for clichéd pornography stories and figure out what to say. How does one moan online? Typing “ooh ooh ooh” seems so silly. But he could fake it, please him, please John.

He doesn't.

(You cannot lie. You have promised yourself. He deserves – )

His breath hitches without permission. Just from words.

Words.

(But is he thinking of you? Of you or of you? Which you?)

"Shut up," he mutters aloud, to his great embarrassment. He's actually aroused. He can envision it perfectly, every moment, every touch. He can feel John. He wants to feel John. His brain has cataloged other touches, before, in safe places, and he can extrapolate how those touches would feel elsewhere. Accuracy in sensation is only estimated at 75%, but it’s enough. 100% might kill him.

Blindfolds. Blindfolds. The thought makes him temporarily falter, soften a bit. Giving up control, being exposed, maybe tied up, at his mercy. At John's mercy. It terrifies him.

Briefly.

He shivers. Starts to throb again. He finds himself murmuring John's name as John grows bolder. He's hard. He's wound up. He can’t remember the last time he felt like this. (Never?) He touches himself and nearly loses it at the thought of John's tongue on him.

(Remember being told your semen was too bitter? Too harsh? Just like you? If he were here, in real life, would he gag? Pull back? Say sorry, but I've changed my mind? Back to better-tasting women? Maybe it’s only good because it’s all in your head, because it’s not real. It’s not you. Or you.)

This is always a problem. Never being able to shut off his mind, even during sex. Maybe it would be different, if John were here, in the flesh. John flesh. John’s flesh. John’s _flesh_.

(But does he want you or you? Which you?)

He quiets his thoughts enough to follow John's instructions. Not just enough to pretend. Saliva is not the ideal lubricant, so he gropes blindly for his bag – everything packed, always ready to leave at a moment’s notice – and finds his shampoo. Not perfect, but it will suffice for just one finger, with a copious amount. John's cock is undoubtedly larger than this. He'd be able to find his prostate easily, without this awkward contortion, one hand on his cock, one finger (mostly) in his ass, and he hates having to remove the one from his cock to type but please, please, John, John fucking his hand, like he was inside, like this was real, like, like, please, John, please...

He has no clue what to say, after. There's no need to lie, at least. His hands are shaking, but he manages to clean himself adequately, redress.

John is typing away when he hears the alarm. Someone's set off the tripwire. The meeting will be today, after all.

(Laptop, phone, evidence, straight to John. John. No time to wipe them clean. Encryptions aren’t perfect. Evidence. John. JOHN.)

He hastily types a goodbye, regretting its brevity as soon as he hits send.

(No time.)

They can and will be replaced. He smashes the phone first, then the laptop. Then a small explosive charge, and he can accomplish two tasks at once. Destroy any evidence of communication with John -

(Do you trust Mycroft's assertion that the lines were secure? Too late to worry now.)

\- and slow them down, if not stop them.

(You think they'd only send a few?)

He waits. He presses the button and watches his lifeline to John – and at least one man – disintegrate in a small explosion.

They've sent a small army.

(You should be flattered.)

He knows he can't possibly overpower them all, but he must try. He's so close. He underestimated them (stupid, STUPID) but he can use this to his advantage. He will be subdued. He will likely be taken directly to the head of snake, because they have such simple little minds. They will want to gloat. Rub it in his face. He can use this.

So close.

It’s better this way, really. Faster. Instead of weeks of reconnaissance, he’ll be taken straight to his target.

So close to being done, being with John.

(But does he want you or you? Which you?)

He struggles with consciousness, knowing he will lose. It doesn't matter that they hit his ribs, his groin.

(Me. He wants me. All of me.)

John.

(Are you sure?)

Jo.

(No.)

J.


End file.
